


Forte

by Suspicious_Popsicle



Series: Mix Tape [1]
Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suspicious_Popsicle/pseuds/Suspicious_Popsicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flynn, a violinist and classical music student, finds himself stuck living with Yuri, the lead singer and guitarist of a metal band and possibly the most infuriating person Flynn has ever met. Based on a prompt from Hoskky on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Based off a prompt from Hoskky. HUGE props for helping me out all the way through writing this one and the sequel! Left to my own devices, this would have been a total mess. Thanks! =D  
> EDIT: I should prolly clarify that Hoskky helped with both beta reading and filling in my woefully lacking knowledge about metal, but most of the knowledge won't kick in until the second story.
> 
> A song called “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” features pretty heavily in the third part. If you haven’t heard it, you might want to take a listen on youtube before reading. Go ahead. It’s a good song. The story will wait.
> 
> Links for the original prompt and the song can be found in the author’s notes on my dreamwidth.  
> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are from Tales of Vesperia and do not belong to me.

Flynn pulled into the driveway of the little two-bedroom house, parked the car, and slumped in his seat with a sigh. He didn’t want to go back into the house. Not while his roommate was still there. Not after last night. Not after the morning he’d had _because_ of last night.

Letting his head loll to the side, he glared out his window at the sky blue motorcycle parked haphazardly just off the gravel, directing his ire at it as a representation of everything loud, irritating, and just plain incongruous about the friend of a friend he’d been suckered…forced… _talked_ into living with.

Yuri Lowell was the rowdiest, noisiest, most contrary person Flynn had ever met in his entire life—and that was when he was in a _good_ mood. When Yuri got angry, he was little more than a delinquent with the impulse control of a five year old. While Flynn could admit that he did have a temper himself, he had also learned how to control it. Obviously, Yuri hadn’t managed finish his maturation into adulthood. In the month and a half since Flynn had moved in, Yuri had managed to bait him into three fistfights, which was three more than Flynn had ever been in before. It was lucky he had a background in martial arts, because if Yuri had not only baited him but beaten him, Flynn wasn’t sure he could have stood the humiliation of staying…and he really needed to stay. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Six weeks ago his mother had kicked him out of the house after an argument that Flynn was still trying not to think about. He wasn’t welcome back, not unless…. No. He wasn’t welcome back. He would have been lying if he’d said he didn’t miss how much easier things had been under his mother’s roof, but the cost of returning was too high.

So, he’d found himself at a loss, facing homelessness with no job and no friends that he could stay with until he could stand on his own two feet. Then, in a stroke of luck—Flynn was no longer sure it was _good_ luck—Estelle had told him about a friend of hers who was in need of a housemate. The man Estelle described was a musician the same age as Flynn, a great guy who was going to lose his lease at the end of the month if he didn’t find someone to replace the person he had been living with. Really, Flynn would be doing him a favor by moving in, even if Yuri had to loan him half of the first month’s rent until Flynn found a job to cover his bills.

Out of desperation and no small amount of trust in Estelle, Flynn had agreed to move in, even after the poor first impression Yuri had made. Some days, he considered it one of the biggest mistakes of his life. When Estelle had called Yuri a musician, what she had meant was that Yuri had formed some sort of heavy metal garage band with a couple people who were—presumably—his girlfriend and a ten year old. On its own, that wouldn’t have been so bad—a little strange, on account of the kid, but not bad. The problem was that the group practiced in the house. Every. Time. Every practice they held took place in the living room of the house Flynn had regrettably gotten himself stuck staying at. Yuri was loud. The kid was louder. The “music” was deafening.

Of course, Flynn didn’t dislike popular music, or at least not all of it. There were a few bands that he enjoyed listening to from time to time. However, there was a fundamental gap between what he considered to be real music and what Yuri listened to. Classical music could be enjoyed and _appreciated_. It spoke directly to a person’s humanity and the shared experiences that defined humankind as a whole. There was a depth, a richness, to classical music that made contemporary songs seem shallow and ephemeral in comparison. There was more detail and beauty in a daybreak described by the notes and tempo of an orchestra than in the lyrics of a hundred pop songs.

Still, popular music couldn’t help but be influenced by the classics, and there was a fair amount of it that was decently entertaining when judged based on its own standards. Privately, Flynn tended to associate pop music with soda pop: bubbly and fun sometimes, but not something one should have too much of. It was a sentiment he’d learned not to share. No matter how sincere his preference for the time-tested symphonies of the great composers or the improvisation of skilled jazz musicians, to eschew pop in favor of something that reached him, that actually made him feel what the musician was trying to express was far too often regarded as pretentious.

Setting his own opinions aside, Flynn had made an effort to accustom himself to Yuri’s style of music once it became apparent that he was to be subjected to it practically on a daily basis. No matter how hard he had tried to find something redeeming in it, however, it remained nothing more than a cacophony to his ears. As far as he could tell, the goal of metal wasn’t to evoke an emotion or convey a message; it was simply to be as loud as possible. Eventually, he had given up trying to understand and invested in a pair of earplugs.

He wished he had those earplugs with him as he pulled the keys out of the ignition. Whatever else he was, Yuri wasn’t particularly lazy, and would probably be up practicing. Trying to be thankful that he at least wouldn’t have to listen for very long as he had only stopped by to pick up a paper for his music appreciation class that he’d forgotten, Flynn got out of the car and headed for the door. It was Yuri’s fault he’d left the assignment behind in the first place. If he hadn’t been up so late making all that racket practicing with his bassist, Flynn could have gotten a decent night’s sleep. Instead, he’d tossed and turned and woken up in a fog, barely able to focus on running through his morning routines before class. 

Flynn was beginning to suspect that Yuri and the purple-haired bassist girl weren’t actually going out, as they never seemed to get up to anything aside from playing guitar. Less awkward in such a small house, perhaps, but more irritating. He was certain nothing they could do in Yuri’s bedroom would be louder or more distracting than their living room practice sessions.

As he unlocked the front door and stepped into the clutter of amps, music stands, and cords, he heard, to his surprise, the sound of “Fur Elise” being played on an electronic keyboard. It was the same song he had been trying to practice on his violin the other night before Yuri’s band mates had shown up for their considerably louder and impossible to ignore practice session. The notes came a little hesitantly, but with few mistakes, and he listened for a minute, thinking he couldn’t possibly be hearing Yuri play something classical.

Repede came padding into the living room, and Flynn knelt to pet him. The fact that Yuri owned such a big dog was Flynn’s favorite thing about him. Repede was a handsome animal, despite having one eye scarred shut, and he was intelligent and well trained, too. Glad that at least one of his housemates was happy to see him, Flynn scratched behind Repede’s ears and ruffled his fur as the dog licked his face.

“He really likes you.”

Immediately, Repede perked up at the sound of Yuri’s voice and left Flynn to go stand by his owner. Yuri was leaning against the open doorway to the living room, arms crossed, smirking as he watched. He leaned over to pet Repede, but he kept his attention on Flynn, who was a little annoyed to realize that he had learned to tell the subtle difference between Yuri’s casual wear and what he considered “dressed up.” At the moment, Yuri was definitely casual. His jeans were blue and barely ripped at all. The t-shirt he was wearing was another of his ubiquitous metal band shirts. He wore one sword-shaped pendant around his neck and his favorite cuff on his left wrist. It was practically a conservative look for him. 

“I didn’t know you played piano.” 

Flynn stood and brushed himself off. Though his own instrument of choice was the violin, he had some skill with the piano, as well. It was a strange similarity between them, but then, the piano was one of the easier instruments to learn. If Yuri was going to learn to play something aside from the guitar, his choice made sense.

“I don’t, normally. Just felt like it this morning.”

“You aren’t half bad. With a little more training—”

Yuri laughed shortly. “Save your breath. You’re not gonna convert me.”

“I’m not trying to convert you,” Flynn said tartly. He’d been trying to offer a compliment. The fact that Yuri had so easily dismissed him sent a heated wave of anger coursing through him, made him clench his fists at his sides and draw a deep breath in an attempt to keep from exacerbating the tensions that always seemed to rise to the surface whenever they spoke. “I’m trying to broaden your horizons.”

“Whatever.” 

Suddenly no longer looking so amused, Yuri turned his face aside. When he licked his lips, Flynn caught a flash of silver from the stud in his tongue. That was another thing he didn’t understand about Yuri. Weren’t tongue rings entirely more trouble than they were worth? Didn’t they tend to get infected, or knock against a person’s teeth? Weren’t they in the way during meals? What about kissing? Wouldn’t it be difficult to kiss someone with a hunk of metal floating around in the mix? Wouldn’t that feel weird for the other person? Well, there were probably people who liked it, liked the feel of something hard tracing over their skin, breaking up the soft, wet sensation of tongue….

Flynn shook his head, bringing his focus back to the present. Yuri had asked him a question.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said: What are you doing back so early?”

“I forgot something.”

“ _You_ did?” 

He was grinning now, far more amused by the mistake than he had any right to be. As Yuri knelt to scratch Repede, Flynn frowned at him, forgetting his original goal of grabbing his paper off the printer and getting back to the campus as soon as possible.

“Well, if _someone_ hadn’t kept me up half the night making such a racket, I would have been able to think this morning.”

“We weren’t that loud, you baby.”

“Yuri, your idea of music is why the phrase: ‘enough noise to wake the dead’ was coined.”

“Fuck off. It’s cathartic.”

Stunned by what he’d just heard, Flynn stared until Yuri looked up at him.

“Cathartic means—”

“I know what it means!” The words came out harsher than he’d intended, and Yuri’s smirk twisted unpleasantly.

“Oh, I get it. You’re surprised that _I_ know what it means.”

“No, I….” Yes. He had been, and annoyed on top of that to hear Yuri had thought the same of him, however briefly. “Anyway, of course it’s cathartic. Screaming is one of the most basic forms of stress relief. That doesn’t mean it has any creative merit.”

“It’s not just screaming and yelling, you know. It means something.”

“Explain it to me, then.”

“I’d rather not waste my time trying to explain to someone who won’t understand.” 

He stood up and whistled one long note. Both Flynn and Repede recognized it as the signal for Repede to go get his leash for a walk. Yuri communicated commands with a series of different whistles, and Flynn’s ear for music had allowed him to quickly pick up on which sound meant what. He hadn’t yet attempted to see if Repede would obey him as readily as Yuri. For some reason, he was afraid the dog would laugh at him. 

Apparently, Yuri truly was finished with the discussion. He gathered his wallet and keys off the coffee table that was constantly littered with coins and guitar picks, pages of notes covered in notations and revisions, candy wrappers and chip bags, soda cans and half empty bottles of water. He started toward the door, but Flynn wasn’t willing to let him go so easily.

“Why wouldn’t I understand?” 

Yuri was the one who didn’t understand. He was the one rejecting what music ought to be. He obviously had some talent, but he couldn’t even accept a compliment when it came from Flynn. It was unreasonably infuriating. Why Yuri didn’t just throw him out and find another housemate when he obviously disliked Flynn so much was a constant mystery.

“You don’t even _want_ to understand.” Yuri pressed into Flynn’s personal space. They were the same height, a fact which Flynn found particularly disconcerting with Yuri right in his face like that. “You’re all wrapped up in your role as the gifted little classical genius, and you’ve got me pegged as nothing but your slacker roommate. Hate to break it to you, but we’ve got more in common than you want to think.”

Just then, Repede returned with the leash, and Yuri stepped away to pull on a worn black hoodie that had been tossed carelessly over the back of an ancient armchair. Saying the two of them had anything in common was absurd. Yuri had no idea what Flynn was going through or how much work he put into his studies. He didn’t know anything.

“What, _exactly_ , do the two of us have in common?” 

“If you stick around long enough, maybe you’ll figure it out. Have to pull your head out of your ass, though.” 

“Answer my question!”

Yuri attached the leash to Repede’s collar and was about to walk out when Flynn grabbed his arm. As Yuri’s eyes shot up to meet his, Flynn realized his mistake. There was real anger in his expression, and Flynn let him go in a flash and backed up a step. He saw Yuri hesitate, saw him turn his head aside and force himself to relax before walking quickly away, out of the house and down the drive, Repede at his side.

“That could have gone better,” Flynn muttered once he was certain Yuri was out of earshot. He closed the door and remembered suddenly why he had come back in the first place.

Yuri had a way of getting under Flynn’s skin like no one else. The past month and a half of living under the same roof had been nothing but irritation and arguments and fights. It was no way to live, but Flynn didn’t have much choice in the matter. As he grabbed his paper and headed back to his car, he realized that it would be up to him to try to improve the mess he had landed himself in and try to get through to Yuri. Maybe inviting Yuri to see him perform as first violin would help. He did have a concert coming up. It was possible that actually experiencing classical music the way it was meant to be experienced would make Yuri understand.

It was at least worth a try, right?

As he buckled up, he glanced down at his phone where it sat in the cup holder and noticed that he’d gotten a text from Estelle while he’d been inside. He didn’t have a lot of time to talk if he was going to make it back in time for his class, but he sent her a message back asking if she wanted to get together for coffee later that afternoon. Now that he thought about it, it had been a while since they had talked. Maybe she would have some ideas for how to live with Yuri. She’d known him a lot longer than Flynn had, after all. Maybe she could talk to him.

They agreed to meet at a café near St. Martel’s, the college Flynn had chosen based on their excellent music program. With his paper safely tucked into a folder in his messenger bag and plans with a friend for after class, Flynn relaxed a little as he backed out of the driveway. He wanted nothing more than to get back to campus and get his day back on track.

\------------------

“…and they kept at it until midnight. I’m surprised we haven’t been getting complaints from the neighbors.” Flynn sighed and took another sip of his coffee. Across from him, Estelle cradled her teacup between her hands and offered him a small smile.

“Well, you said Yuri had the amp on his guitar turned pretty low. Maybe they just don’t realize how well the sound of the bass travels though that little house.”

“He knows.” How could he not know? They used that equipment every week. “The weekend practices are bad enough, but he’s been bringing them over every free afternoon he has lately, and she stops by when he gets home from work as often as not. Trying to practice with all that noise going on is impossible.”

“Have you talked to him about this?”

“I’ve tried.” 

Every conversation he had with Yuri seemed to turn into a fight. When he’d said as much to her earlier, Estelle had acted as if that was strange. Apparently, she had never had a fight with Yuri. When she and Yuri had disagreed in the past, they’d had _debates_ —her word—and, although Estelle did seem to have a gentling effect on most people, Flynn still wasn’t sure he believed that someone as intrinsically irritating as Yuri Lowell could have a civil disagreement with anyone.

“I’m sorry things aren’t working out.” She was drooping a little, and the soft tone of her voice made Flynn remember suddenly that he wouldn’t have moved in with Yuri in the first place if Estelle hadn’t suggested it.

“No, um, it’s just that we’re too different. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful to have a place to stay, I just wish there was some way of getting through to him.”

“What about music? You two have that in common.”

Flynn snorted. “Hardly. That stuff isn’t music. It’s…it’s like refined chaos.”

Something about that actually made Estelle giggle. “I can’t tell if Yuri would take that as a compliment or not. To refine chaos and make something of it…he might like that.”

“I hadn’t meant for it to be complimentary. His idea of music is nothing but noise.”

“Which idea of music?”

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean, ‘Which idea?’ They only play one kind.”

“Dragon Swarm is speed metal. Yuri listens to that, but he also listens to a few types of death metal, mathcore, grunge, jazz, and plenty of other genres. We talk about music a lot. You would be surprised how many subgenres there are in metal alone.”

Flynn couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you actually a fan of that stuff?”

“Well, not exactly. Yuri burned me a CD once with some groups he thought I would like. It’s very different from what I usually listen to, but I find that it’s amazing to have on when I need to get motivated.” She brightened up, smiling widely as she sat a little straighter and curled her hands loosely into fists in front of her. “I can loan it to you, if you’d like. Maybe it would help you understand.”

“No, thank you.” He had already tried. Estelle talked about different genres, but it all sounded the same to Flynn. The world of heavy metal remained inexplicable and unattractive. Flynn was happy with sonatas and concertos, etudes and pastorals: real music that had stood the test of time.

“You ought to have him suggest some bands. I remember him saying that a few of them—”

“I’m sorry, Estelle, but I’d really rather not talk about it anymore.” He got enough metal when he was at the house. The last thing he needed was for Estelle to be pushing him to change his opinion, as well.

“All right.” 

They lapsed into silence, staring down at their drinks. Flynn felt restless and uncomfortable. He’d been battling a fierce discontentment since moving into the house with Yuri, but this was the first time it had surfaced while he was with Estelle. Usually, she was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that, no matter what was troubling him, it couldn’t last forever, that he was smart enough or strong enough to find a resolution. That day, he wasn’t feeling that optimism from her. It felt more like she was taking Yuri’s side, and he was suddenly eager to finish his coffee and leave.

Estelle changed the subject to his upcoming concert, and Flynn relaxed enough to set aside thoughts of rushing off. He had invited her a couple weeks ago and was glad to see that she seemed genuinely excited about coming. He had been worried originally, because the concert had been scheduled for the day after her birthday, and he had known that the time he would be dedicating to practice wouldn’t leave him a chance to celebrate properly with her. He had offered, instead, to take her out to dinner the night after the concert, and he reminded her of that promise as they talked, though he kept the restaurant he had chosen a secret. It was one of the fanciest places in the city and had required that he make reservations to ensure that they would have a table. He wasn’t used to fancy dining anymore, but he could afford to splurge every once in a while.

They spent some time discussing the selections planned for the concert and the increasingly long rehearsals. Flynn was confident that he would be ready, but he still felt a stirring of nervous excitement when he thought about performing. He loved making music, loved being part of an orchestra, but something about the thought of playing for an audience felt different this time, more daunting than it should have. He put it down to stress related to his living situation and didn’t mention it to Estelle. The last thing he wanted was for the conversation to turn back to Yuri.

\-------------

Flynn arrived home that night to one of Yuri’s practice sessions. He could hear it before he even got out of the car, and when he opened the front door and stepped into it, it was all he could do not to yank the power cords out of the wall and maybe toss a speaker or two out the large front window. Instead, he hurried through the living room, nodding stiffly when the kid shot him a huge grin from behind his wall of drums. Shutting himself in his room did little good, as the noise just vibrated through the walls. He had a sudden, ridiculous mental image of Yuri’s band playing loud enough to shake the ceiling down in a rain of paint chips and plaster dust, and he groaned as he realized he would have to go back out into the thick of it if he wanted dinner. He should have just eaten at the café with Estelle.

For once, it seemed like luck was on his side. The noise stopped as Yuri and his band mates reached the end of a song, and it didn’t pick up again immediately. Thinking that perhaps there would be a nice lull while they discussed what pitch of growling would best compliment their tortured instruments, or checked for bleeding eardrums, Flynn ventured out into the kitchen to make himself a quick dinner.

He had sandwich fixings spread out on the counter when the kid wandered in.

“Hey, Flynn! Wha’d ya think of our song? Isn’t it awesome?”

“It’s very…energetic.”

The kid beamed. Kids were easy like that. They took observations as compliments. Yuri would have found a way to start a fight over Flynn’s concession.

“We’ve all been working _really_ hard on this one! There’s a show coming up soon, and this is going to be what we close with.”

They did shows? Who would have them? Flynn couldn’t think of any venues in town that would be receptive to the sort of thing Yuri played.

“I hope it goes well.” He did, too. If it went poorly, he was certain Yuri would increase his practicing, and Flynn wasn’t sure how much more of that he could take. It was like sandpaper on his nerves.

“Thanks! Hey, whatcha makin’?”

“Just a sandwich.”

“I’m getting pretty hungry, too. We’ve been at it for a couple hours.”

From the living room, Yuri called out: “If Flynn offers to make you something, don’t eat it. Trust me.”

The cheap pairing knife Flynn had been using to slice tomatoes snapped in his grip. Swearing under his breath, he inspected his thumb for cuts. He couldn’t afford to hurt his hands, but it didn’t take much for Yuri to make him angry enough to forget that.

Not even hungry anymore, he flung the half-made sandwich into the trash and shoved the fixings back into the fridge. The kid was watching him wide-eyed from one corner of the kitchen, but Flynn didn’t care. He was pissed.

What the fuck was Yuri’s problem? He didn’t have to go spelling out that Flynn couldn’t cook worth a damn—plenty of people couldn’t cook. What the fuck did it matter? He was still a virtuoso on the violin. He was still a hard worker and an accomplished student. What did cooking even matter?

He stormed back into his room and slammed the door. It wasn’t a fraction as loud as Yuri’s practice sessions got, and that only further infuriated him. He swallowed back a scream, not willing to give Yuri the satisfaction of knowing exactly how badly he got under Flynn’s skin.

That was the man he wanted to make peace with? Hah! Yuri would probably laugh in his face when Flynn offered him a ticket for the concert.

Several deep breaths helped calm him down, at least until the guitars and drums started up again, forcing him to put in his earplugs. Usually, a good night’s sleep would help ease his mind. He didn’t really think there was much chance of that, however. Yuri’s practices ran late on Friday nights when the kid didn’t have a bedtime. Flynn pulled out one of his textbooks and settled in for a long night.


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are from Tales of Vesperia and do not belong to me.

A few days later, Flynn found himself standing outside Keiv Rock, a dive of a bar that featured an open mic night for local talent. When he had finally convinced himself that he had to at least _try_ to extend an olive branch, Yuri had readily agreed to attend Flynn’s concert. In exchange, however, he had demanded that Flynn show up to see his band, Dragon Swarm, play. It wasn’t how Flynn wanted to spend his evening, but, in the interest of fostering peace between himself and his roommate, he was willing to give heavy metal one more try.

As soon as he walked inside, Flynn knew he had made a mistake. The bar gave new meaning to the term ‘noise pollution’ as the shouts of patrons, clatter of billiard balls, and screaming group on stage combined into a cloud of sound nearly thick enough to push him right back out the door. Forcing back the urge to clap a hand over his ears, he stepped to the side, looking for a place to sit. The bar was dim and smoky and packed full, even though the din made conversation nearly impossible. Everyone just tried to out shout the noise.

Looking around, Flynn realized fairly quickly that he was overdressed. A navy jacket over a dusty blue v-neck shirt and khakis stood out like a sore thumb among the t-shirts and jeans, camisoles and mini skirts that everyone else was dressed in. He stuck as close to the wall as he could, trying to avoid most of the chaos as he inched his way closer to the stage. He was nearly there when the band performing finished up, cutting the noise level by half. Flynn thanked his lucky stars, grateful for whatever relief he could get. The relative quiet was short-lived, however, as the group launched into another song. Their lead singer—if it could even be called singing—had a startlingly deep roar when he wasn’t screeching, and shockingly pink hair. He bounced around the stage with manic energy, his lyrics barely intelligible amid the aural assault. Flynn suffered through the song, sagging a bit with relief when the MC came out on stage at the end to usher them off and introduce the next band.

“Hey, everybody, give it up for another of our regulars: Dragon Swarm!”

Scattered cheers erupted from points throughout the bar, but Flynn’s attention was caught by a couple dressed as incongruously as himself. They were seated at a table nearby, and actually stood up to applaud as Yuri and his band mates walked onstage. The woman cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted: “Yay, Karol!” and Flynn made the connection. Yuri had told him Karol was the drummer’s name. The couple cheering had to be his parents, and Flynn made his way to their table.

“Excuse me, I’m Flynn Scifo—”

“Oh! You’re Yuri’s new roommate! I’m Joy Capel, and this is my husband, Rupert. Have a seat, dear, we’ve heard a lot about you from Karol!”

Rupert was too busy getting ready to record their son’s performance with his phone to do more than smile in greeting, but Joy seemed more than happy to lean in close for a chat above the roar of the crowd as the band quickly got set up.

“I understand you study at St. Martel. That’s a very prestigious school! Karol is looking at applying in a few years.”

“I— Applying? I’m sorry, how old is he?”

“Fifteen.” She laughed at the look on Flynn’s face. “He gets that reaction all the time, the poor thing. He hates looking so young.”

That was older than Flynn had expected, but still. When he was fifteen, his mother never would have let him come to a place like this, whether or not she was willing to go along and watch over him.

“This all seems a little…. I mean, he’s very talented for someone his age, but….”

“Are you surprised we let him join a metal band? Well, I can’t say I’m terribly thrilled with the atmosphere here, but Karol is doing what he loves. My husband and I agree that we should support him. Besides, we’ve known Yuri for years. If it had been anyone else inviting Karol to join a band that plays in a place like this, the answer would have been no.”

“But Yuri is….”

“Is what, dear?”

“No. Never mind.”

Flynn turned his attention to the stage. They had missed half the first song already, and he had promised to listen, even if the whole thing was obviously an exercise in futility. This wasn’t music; it was a glorified cacophony.

Yuri was decked out in metal chic, bracelets and cuffs of leather and spiked metal halfway up his forearms, heavy silver rings on his fingers, chains hanging from his ripped, midnight black jeans. The white logo of a band was stark on his black t-shirt, half hidden beneath a deep red vest accented with pins and more chains. He was leaning close to the mic as he sang—though that was probably giving him a bit too much credit, as there was more rhythm than melody to the words—voice carrying over the crowd, even though few people had paused their conversations to listen. He played as he sang, fingers jumping over the strings, plucking out screaming chords that Flynn was familiar with after weeks of being an unwilling audience to Yuri’s practice sessions. To one side behind him, Karol was drumming like a seasoned professional, face alight with energy. The girl who played bass guitar—Judy?—stood to Yuri’s other side, providing backup vocals and swaying a little as she played, but lacking Yuri’s theatric energy. 

Flynn couldn’t deny that all three of them were skilled with their particular instruments, and they all held themselves with the confidence that they belonged on that stage, but he just couldn’t get into the music. It was entirely too artificial, and weighed down by its own heavy sound. The notes from an electric guitar couldn’t match the vitality of acoustic instruments. To Flynn’s ears, they just sounded dead, tortured by the conversion to electronic signals fed through a cord and spat back out with bursts of feedback that might or might not have been intentional. 

Dragon Swarm played two more songs before bowing and leaving the stage, but Flynn’s opinion hadn’t changed by the end of the set. He looked up at Joy and Rupert who were giving a standing ovation, and barely kept from shaking his head at their display. They couldn’t possibly be heavy metal fans, but there they were, clapping their hearts out and cheering. It wasn’t like they got it. They weren’t hearing something Flynn was missing. All their enthusiasm was manufactured purely for the benefit of their son.

Rather than sitting back down, Rupert laid a few bills down to pay for their drinks and moved to escort his wife away from the table. Joy reached back and tapped Flynn’s shoulder.

“Come with us. We’ll go meet them out back.”

He didn’t want to go with them, but he was ready to take any excuse to leave the bar behind. His ears were going to be ringing for days. It would be a miracle if it didn’t affect his performance in the concert Yuri was supposed to attend in a few nights’ time. The thought of Yuri showing up at the concert hall dressed as he had been onstage popped into Flynn’s head, and he grimaced. He would have to mention that people were expected to dress up like respectable members of society when attending a symphony. 

The cool, quiet evening air enveloped Flynn as he stepped out into the back lot, and he sagged a little in relief. Karol’s voice echoed between the surrounding buildings, and he followed the Capels over to Yuri and the others as they milled around, cooling off after their show.

Yuri was flushed and grinning, eyes bright as he moved restlessly among the little circle of friends. He greeted the Capels warmly, even hugged Joy. Karol scuffed his shoes at his parents’ praise, but it was obvious that he was more pleased by their attention than embarrassed. Even though he was a drummer in a bare bones garage metal band, even though the only gigs he played were in cheap bars where most of the customers didn’t care who was onstage, they still looked so proud of him. Flynn heard Rupert talk about sending the video to other family members, and then Yuri was suddenly at his side, dragging his focus away from the happy little family.

“So? Wha’d you think?” 

He was beaming, hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, brimming over with energy. Flynn took a step back and shrugged.

“It was loud.”

“Of course it was loud. I’m not asking for facts, I’m asking what you thought about our band.”

“Honestly? You’re wasting your time. The market is already oversaturated and I can’t tell the difference between you and every other group I’ve heard.”

In an instant, Yuri’s smile was gone. He went still, and Flynn really should have taken that for the warning it was, but he was too angry to care. Why the hell had Yuri even asked him to come watch? What was the point? It was a wasted evening for everyone. The band wasn’t going anywhere, and St. Martel’s didn’t accept students based on inclusion in a no-name garage band.

“What did you say?”

“I said: You’d better not quit your day job. Whatever you’re making as a waiter is going to be more than you’ll ever make as a musician. You’re deluding yourself if you think otherwise.”

Without taking his eyes off of Flynn, Yuri called back over his shoulder to the Capels. “Guys, why don’t you take Karol home. My roommate and I are going to have a little talk.”

Karol and his family disappeared around the building, but Judy walked right up to Yuri and tapped lightly on his shoulder as she passed.

“Don’t mess up your hands.” She said it with a smile that turned into a smirk when she fixed her attention onto Flynn. As she walked off, she waved over her shoulder. “Give him one for Karol and me, too.”

When Flynn glanced back at her, Yuri sucker punched him. The blow knocked the wind out of him and made him stumble, but he kept on his feet. To his surprise, Yuri didn’t follow up with his usual flurry of punches. 

“I don’t care what the fuck you say to me, but you’d better watch your mouth around Karol!” He was practically growling, but the roughness in his voice was different from when he sang. Yuri was legitimately angry, and Flynn sneered as he realized that anger wasn’t even on his own behalf.

_That’s_ what had him so mad? That Flynn had said what he did in front of the kid? As far as he was concerned, Karol needed to hear the truth, needed to hear that just being yourself wasn’t good enough. But what would Yuri know about that? He probably had parents like Karol’s, parents who were just so ridiculously proud of their oh-so-unique son with his dead end wait staff job and his part time attendance at the community college and his dime a dozen band.

“Why? Someone should tell him the truth! You’re lying to him if you’re letting him think he’s going to make it big playing this trash!”

“Fuck you! You wouldn’t know music if it bit you on the ass! All you know is what you’re told is supposed to be good!”

“I _appreciate_ music, which is more than I can say for you with your brainless, earsplitting drivel!”

Yuri rushed him, but Flynn was expecting it. He caught Yuri’s arm and threw him to the ground, following him down, lashing out furiously.

“I have worked every day of my life to get to where I am! I study! I apply myself! I’ve done everything I was supposed to do, and look where it’s gotten me! _Why am I not good enough?_ ”

He heard the echo of his own words and stopped, one fist raised in preparation for another wild punch. The blow never landed. All the fight had drained out of him. As he slowly lowered his fist, Yuri threw him aside and surged to his feet, brushing himself off.

“Work out some of your issues, there? Feel better now that you’ve taken it out on someone else?”

“I’m sor—”

“Say that to Karol. I don’t want to hear it.”

Yuri left him alone in the parking lot with his thoughts, and Flynn picked himself up shakily. _Why am I not good enough?_ The words rang through his head: his own question, his own anger and confusion and hurt that Yuri and his music and his band so effortlessly brought to the surface. For more than six weeks, Flynn had been trying not to think about that fight he’d had with his mother, the one that had gotten him kicked out of the house, the one that had started when he’d finally worked up the courage to tell her that he was gay. Apparently, there were some things that you couldn’t just ignore until they went away. It was no wonder Yuri always had such an easy time picking fights with him. It was no wonder that Flynn had consistently gotten so angry when he’d felt Yuri was being dismissive or ignoring him. He couldn’t keep on trying to run from what had happened. The resentment would only continue building up inside him, erupting against people who had nothing to do with his issues.

With a shuddering sigh, he ran his hands through his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he wondered how he was supposed to apologize to Yuri and Karol and Judy, and how he was going to cope now that he could no longer hide from the fact that things in his life were very much not okay.

\------------

Over the next two days, Flynn barely saw Yuri. He wasn’t sure what to say to him, or if he’d even be able to manage to keep his temper in check. They had formed a pattern of arguing whenever they spoke, and Flynn wasn’t foolish enough to think he would be able to change that immediately simply because he understood where most of his anger was coming from. He kept mostly to his room when he was at the house, and stayed late on campus to practice. Yuri didn’t have anything to say to him, which suited Flynn fine for the time being. He needed a chance to sort through everything that had happened.

He thought a lot about his mother and found that, while hating her only served to make him feel worse, he couldn’t bring himself to forgive her for what she had done. He couldn’t seem to work up the courage to call her and see if they could talk things out, either. Flynn knew his mother, knew how tenaciously she held on to her decisions and her grudges. It wasn’t likely that things would ever be the same between them again. Constant reminders of that fact were the pain he felt at any thought of her, and the knowledge that the only place he had to call home was occupied by a man he no longer hated, but who had good reason to hate him.

Trying to escape his problems wasn’t going to help, but with an upcoming concert, Flynn had to practice. He threw himself into his music because it had always made him feel better before. This time, however, he noticed that something was missing. While the notes he played were technically perfect, he couldn’t summon up the kind of passion for the violin that would have infused his playing with the vitality it needed. He was angry and confused, hurt and unreasonably tired, and his playing reflected that with a measured, mechanical soullessness. He kept at it, wishing with everything he had that things were back to normal.

\------------

On the day of the concert, Yuri knocked on Flynn’s door first thing in the morning. Flynn stared dumbly at him, not sure what was going on or how he should react to the fading bruise he’d left around Yuri’s right eye or the vividly red scrapes around the left corner of his mouth.

“You haven’t given me my ticket yet,” Yuri said.

“What?”

“You said I needed a ticket for your show.”

“Oh. Right. Just a minute.” 

He turned away, leaving Yuri standing impatiently in the hall. He hadn’t expected him to come, certainly not after the fiasco that had been Flynn’s first and hopefully last excursion to Keiv Rock. Considering his behavior, he couldn’t even bring himself to mention to Yuri that it was expected of him to dress up. He would just have to hope Yuri dressed casual rather than full-on lead singer. 

Each member of the orchestra had been allotted two free tickets to pass on to guests. One of Flynn’s had gone to Estelle. Since he doubted his mother would be coming—

Flynn froze, one hand in his messenger bag reaching for the folder he’d put the other ticket in. What if his mother _did_ show up? She didn’t have any reason to, not unless she simply wanted to humiliate him. She wouldn’t go that far, though, surely. It was more in her nature to distance herself from things she didn’t like. There was no way she would show up. No way. Not at all. She wouldn’t.

Quickly, he retrieved the ticket and handed it to Yuri. He had the door halfway closed when Yuri caught it and leaned in closer.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You look a little freaked out.” He grinned suddenly. “Stage fright?”

“Sure. Look, I have to get ready, so….”

“Yeah, fine. See you tonight.”

Flynn shut him out and counted up all the reasons his mother would not bother attending the concert that evening.

\------------

The sound of the orchestra tuning was a balm on Flynn’s mind. It was a strange and chaotic mix of sound, oddly hushed, different for every performance, the fingerprint of the evening. He closed his eyes and listened, picking out the other instruments and recalling the faces of the people who created music from them. This was his orchestra, his stage. This was where he belonged. He had earned his place here, and no one could take that away from him. Focusing on his own violin, he listened to the sound of every string, the timbre of the notes called forth from each one as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Calm filled him like the air before a summer storm, a charged calm expectant of things to come. He had done this so many times before. It was his worth and his passion and his love. It was not something he would fail at, not something anyone could reject him for. That evening, Flynn would make music, and it would be pure and wondrous.

Opening his eyes, he watched from just offstage as the theater filled up. He spotted Estelle easily enough with her pink hair, but he didn’t see Yuri. He didn’t allow himself to search for his mother’s face in the assembling crowd. Eventually, the lights dimmed and the chatter and rustling died down. As the houselights went out and the spotlight went on, the conductor strode across the stage to a round of applause. He introduced himself first and then Flynn, as first violin. The same applause was given to Flynn as he walked onstage, but he took greater joy from the familiar feel of his violin in his hand and the anticipatory smiles of the other members of the orchestra. The conductor provided a brief introduction to the first set they would be performing, and the concert began.

\------------

To Flynn, it seemed the night flew by. Surrounded and supported by the results of the hard work and talent of his fellow musicians, his own playing had regained its shine and sounded out clear and true. By the end of the concert, he was exhausted, but it was a pleasant weariness, the contentment of having done his best, loving every second of it.

He packed his violin carefully away in its case and made his way into the crowd to seek out Estelle. He was ravenous suddenly, and in the mood to go out for dinner. He felt like he ought to be celebrating.  
Estelle had done up her hair and donned a dress that shimmered blue and green for the evening. She looked beautiful, but Flynn’s attention was caught by the man at her side. Yuri stood next to her, grinning as they chatted. Gone were his torn jeans and logo-emblazoned t-shirts. He was dressed in sleek black slacks and a gunmetal gray vest over a pristine white dress shirt. He had even tied up his hair into a tight ponytail, though he had left two thick locks loose to frame his face, partially obscuring the traces of the fight they’d had only a few nights ago.

Until someone bumped into him from behind, Flynn hadn’t realized that he had stopped moving. He shook his head, wondering how he had never noticed before that Yuri was actually rather good looking, and why he had to be realizing it just then when Estelle had spotted him and was waving him over, leaving no escape. He swallowed hard and reminded himself that it was just Yuri, that underneath the nice clothes was the same capricious, sarcastic metal fan that had been making Flynn’s life difficult for the past several weeks.

“Cool show,” Yuri said once he was close enough. His smile was genuine. “I liked the one where they got to use that big gong.”

Estelle swatted him lightly on the arm. “He’s being silly, Flynn. He knew better than I did what songs you were playing. It was wonderful, by the way. Thank you for inviting us.”

“You’re welcome. Do you want to go get dinner?”

He was supposed to have been asking Estelle. For some reason, though, he couldn’t take his eyes off of Yuri.

\------------

The next evening was the night Flynn had been planning to take Estelle out for her birthday. He picked her up at seven and drove toward the downtown area, which was bustling as the nocturnal set began emerging for celebration and frivolity. They made small talk as Flynn drove, but he was having trouble concentrating. He kept thinking how strange it had been for his mother to miss one of his performances. She had attended dutifully for years, though Flynn was no longer sure whether her presence had been an act of love or merely a chore required to keep up the appearance of an attentive, single mother.

Either way, the fact that she had been missing from the audience left Flynn feeling strangely empty. It was as if that was her final word in their falling out. She had pushed him so entirely out of her life that she would not even deign to attend his concert, was not even willing to be seen as the proud mother of the first violinist. She wanted nothing to do with him.

He felt hollow. Depression had taken him the night before, creeping up on him in the middle of dinner with Estelle and Yuri, but it had left him early on in the day to be replaced with a seething anger that frothed and boiled until it came to a head in a shouting match with Yuri. Flynn couldn’t even remember what had set it off in the first place. Luckily, he had come to his senses before things had come to blows, but he’d been left deflated and defeated. Even his apology, though it had been sincere, had lacked energy. Really, it was no wonder Yuri had completely ignored it and simply walked out, leaving Flynn alone in the house. He’d seemed…strangely understanding in a very angry sort of way, and Flynn figured that, if Yuri had somehow worked out that his anger was at least partially misplaced, maybe he was actually trying to be nice by giving him space rather than escalating the situation. Stranger things had happened.

“Flynn? Is something wrong?”

He glanced over at Estelle, feeling guilty that it was so obvious that he wasn’t in a celebratory mood. “Sorry. It’s just that I realized something the other day and it’s been bothering me ever since.”

“Is it anything I can help with?”

“No. But thank you. It’s something I need to deal with, myself. I just…. It’s difficult, is all. And Yuri…might be trying to help, but he’s part of the problem.”

“You two still aren’t getting along?” She was honestly disappointed, and probably on his behalf rather than simply because her attempt to help had backfired.

“We’re doing better than we were, but I think we may be too different. We’re the musical odd couple.”

She giggled, and he glanced back and forth between her and the road, wondering what was so funny.

“What?”

“I can tell you’re getting along better. You just implied that Yuri is a musician without being mean about it at all.”

“I didn’t…. I mean, I haven’t been….” He tried to think of a time when he had spoken to Estelle about Yuri without complaining. There had to have been at least one time. Yuri had his good points. He had Repede. And he always had his half of the bills on time. He was…dedicated…to his band. He looked good in a—

No. Not going there. 

“He’s…not all bad,” Flynn admitted. 

He remembered Yuri leaning up against the doorjamb, smiling as he watched Flynn and Repede. He remembered Yuri’s words: _He likes you_ , remembered the fascination he’d had with that brief glimpse of silver on Yuri’s tongue. Shaking his head, he dispelled the memories and cursed the fact that Yuri had actually known to dress up for the concert. If Flynn hadn’t already felt guilty about the things he had said outside Keiv Rock, plus been trying to cope with almost two months of repressed emotional turmoil, it wouldn’t even have mattered that Yuri cleaned up really well.

It didn’t matter.

It shouldn’t matter.

It bothered him that it mattered.

Thankfully, they arrived at the restaurant only a few minutes later. Estelle leaned forward in her seat, looking up at the building.

“The Atria?” She sounded surprised, and Flynn smiled.

“Since I missed your actual birthday, I thought the least I could do was take you out some place nice.”

“Thank you! This is one of my favorites. I’m surprised you wanted to come here, though.”

That was a little odd. Maybe she was just concerned about the expense. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.” He put it out of his mind as they went inside. 

As the maitre d’ took Flynn’s name and let him know that their table would be ready momentarily, one of the waiters waved a quick ‘hello’ to Estelle. Something about him looked familiar, but Flynn couldn’t place what it was. Another waiter paused to greet Estelle as they were shown to their table. Apparently, she was something of a regular.

“Come here often?”

She laughed. “Not really. They know me because I’m a friend of Yuri’s.”

“Yuri?” What did he have to do with this?

“Yes, of course.” She peered at him, her smile fading. “I thought you knew. He works here.”

“No, I….” 

He looked around, noticing that all of the waiters wore the same black pants, white dress shirt, and gunmetal vest that Yuri had shown up to the concert wearing. It explained how he had come up with something appropriate to wear, but it was still a shock to think about Yuri waiting tables. He didn’t exactly have the temperament for it.

Even as Flynn thought that, he spotted Yuri striding across the dining room, a serving tray holding two glass-covered dishes held high as he wove his way around tables and other waiters. He was all smiles as he set the dishes carefully in front of the diners and removed the covers. When he started to turn, Flynn looked away, hoping that Yuri wouldn’t see them. The table he had just served had been across the restaurant. Surely he wouldn’t be assigned as their waiter, as well.

The food must have been amazing, but Flynn barely tasted it, too caught up in trying not to stare as he kept catching glimpses of Yuri going about his job on the other side of the room. It was bizarre how quiet he was. Used to hearing him practicing for his gigs, Flynn was unaccustomed to the sight of Yuri without the sound of him. He caught himself straining to hear his voice, particularly when he noticed him laughing politely at something one of the guests had said to him. Flynn never heard so much as a single word, and he never saw him look in their direction even once. He wondered if Yuri hadn’t noticed him, if he was the only one who felt so awkward for having shown up at his workplace unawares.

“Flynn?”

The silverware rattled against the china when Flynn gave a start, more surprised by Estelle’s voice than he should have been. She was staring at him with no small amount of concern, and he sheepishly picked up his fork and knife and tried to bring his focus back to the company he was with and the food set out in front of him.

“Do you feel all right? You’re acting strange.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just been a very long week.” 

He smiled, knowing that it must look tired. It hadn’t exactly been a lie, but neither had it been the real explanation for his wandering attention. Silently, he apologized for misleading her. He hadn’t ever felt the need to speak to Estelle in half-truths before, except when he had told her about needing to find a place to live in a hurry. He wanted to rectify that now, to tell her the truth about his mother and the awful fight they’d had, but he didn’t want to ruin her birthday dinner, and he certainly didn’t want to make her worry for him. The truth about that could wait, then.

Catching a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of long, black hair tied into a high ponytail, Flynn had to force himself to sit still and eat. As for the truth about his distraction, he wondered why he hadn’t told her flat out that he simply found it strange to see Yuri being quiet, for once.

That was all there was to it, after all. It had to be.

\------------

A couple more days passed by, during which time Flynn mostly managed to rein in his temper to preserve their unspoken truce but, though Yuri was practicing a little less to give Flynn more time for his own rehearsals, they still barely spoke to each other. Flynn couldn’t really blame Yuri for avoiding him, and he felt responsible for the palpable lack of words between them. It was a different kind of tension from what had existed before, but it wasn’t much of a step in the right direction. However, as talking to Yuri rarely seemed to end well for one reason or another, Flynn opted to take a different approach.

“Rock Around the Clock” wasn’t exactly a song intended to be played on a violin, and Flynn hadn’t taken a great deal of time to practice, but when he heard Yuri’s laugh from down the hall, followed shortly by what could only be an attempt at “Chopsticks” played on an electric guitar, he figured he had gotten the message across well enough.

A few minutes later, Yuri poked his head into Flynn’s room, a grin lighting up his face.

“Hey. Repede and I are going for a walk. Wanna come along?”

He matched Yuri’s smile with one of his own. “Sure.”


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to follow. =D
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters in this story are from Tales of Vesperia and do not belong to me.

Flynn stepped out of the shower, toweled off, and pulled on the clean change of clothes he’d left lying next to the sink. He could hear Yuri practicing and sighed a little. Things between them had been easier over the past couple of weeks, but he was still wary when it came to anything having to do with Yuri’s preferred choice of music. Strange things set Yuri off sometimes and, although he was usually more likely to tone it down nowadays when Flynn asked, there was always the chance that he could decide to be contrary and pick a fight for reasons that always remained his own. While Flynn now understood where most of his anger towards Yuri had come from, Yuri’s own triggers remained a mystery.

He went to his room and shut the door. Sometimes he could practice while Yuri played, and sometimes the sound of the electric guitar slashed through Flynn’s concentration like a chainsaw. It was the latter that day, and he reluctantly carried his violin and bow down the hall. Occasionally, the sight of the violin would clue Yuri in without Flynn having to say anything. He knocked sharply, enough that the door, always left just slightly ajar, swung inward.

Yuri’s room was a mess of clothes and sheet music. His bed was a mattress shoved into one corner, currently occupied by a dozing Repede. Next to the bed was a keyboard and stand, rarely used and left to lean up against the wall. An acoustic guitar in its case stood next to a desk housing a few textbooks, an inexpensive laptop, and some high-end speakers. In the middle of the room was a music stand and a chair where Yuri was currently sitting. Clad in yet another tight, black band shirt, he had his hair tied up out of the way into a messy bun high on his head and wore a pair of black jeans faded to gray and decorated with patches. He pulled a pen from behind his ear to make a note on the pages in front of him. The little amp his electric guitar was plugged into was turned more than halfway up.

“I have another concert coming up that I need to prepare for.”

“Cool.” Tucking the pen back behind his ear, he looked up at Flynn. “When?”

“Soon enough that I need to practice.”

“Am I invited to this one, too?”

“If you want.” He gestured to the amp. “Can you turn it down a bit?”

“Working on a new song for my next gig.”

“Can you work on it a little more quietly?”

Yuri’s gaze got a lot sharper at that and he slid off the chair and stepped around the music stand. Realizing that he might have just stepped on a landmine, Flynn barely repressed a groan.

“You’re still thinking that your music is more important than mine.”

“That’s not—! Where did you even come up with that? All I asked was for you to practice a little quieter.”

“You aren’t as smooth as you think when it comes to hiding the fact that you don’t give a damn.”

“I didn’t even say anything about your music!” 

He stomped into the room, temper flaring. Was it too much to ask for Yuri to occasionally make sense?

Yuri laughed shortly. “Of course not. You think it’s beneath your notice. How about this, then? We’ll work it out in a language we both understand.” Yuri leveled a finger at him, a smirk on his face and a challenge in the lift of his chin. “’I bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, ‘cause I think I’m better’n you.’”

“You do a terrible imitation of a Southern drawl.” Having expected another fight, Flynn was taken aback by the implication of the quote. Was Yuri actually suggesting they compete musically? “What makes you think I even know that song?”

The grin that spread across Yuri’s face contained more glee than Flynn had expected. He actually looked excited. 

“I don’t think you’re nearly as stuffy as you pretend to be. Rosin up your bow, Johnny.”

Even knowing Yuri was baiting him, Flynn raised his violin to his chin. If this was going to be how they figured things out, that suited him just fine. It was infinitely better than resorting to violence, and he wasn’t worried that Yuri might best him, particularly not with a song far better suited to being played on violin than guitar. He played a quick succession of notes, pleased by their clarity and the ease with which the beginning of the song returned to him. 

“Ready when you are.”

Nodding, Yuri tapped his foot, setting the beat before launching into “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Leaving the vocals up to Yuri and his dramatic flair, Flynn joined in with his violin. He’d learned the song years ago. It was catchy and fun, sure, but he hadn’t had occasion to play it for some time and had gotten a little rustier than he had first expected. The strangeness of hearing the tune played on an electric guitar didn’t help matters. The combination of sounds was an odd one, but Yuri’s fingers were sure as he plucked the notes free, and his voice was strong as he sung out the story of the devil gone to barter for a young man’s soul. Flynn was just easing into the swing of things when they reached the devil’s solo, and he broke off to let Yuri take over.

The first couple bars played out almost exactly as Flynn remembered them…then Yuri deviated. The familiar song was still there but rearranged as Yuri took the notes and the tempo and made them his own. In the middle of his improvisation, he glanced up and made eye contact, looking happier than Flynn had ever seen him when it was just the two of them. Yuri was challenging him again, no mistake, but there was no antagonism behind it, for once. He was simply having fun.

Yuri finished with a flourish that brought the song back on track and sang through the short verse leading to Johnny’s chance to prove himself. It wasn’t much of a chance for Flynn to prepare, caught up as he had been listening to Yuri play, but he jumped in and let the music carry him until he had the rhythm. It wasn’t long before he was back on solid ground, and he leapt from there, trusting in his skills to help him meet Yuri’s challenge. Flynn played for all he was worth, played to prove himself and his talent, played to vindicate his classical training.

For his part, Yuri kept quiet. The lyrics that normally would have gone along with Johnny’s solo were held back. It was only when Flynn circled back to the original arrangement that Yuri caught the music and joined in, a strange counterpoint, the notes correct but the sound of the guitar jarring against the tone of the violin. Again, Flynn let Yuri take over, let him make something new of an old song, and when Yuri signaled the end of his turn by recalling the familiar, Flynn was ready to jump in once more.

They played back and forth that way for some time, upping the ante, drifting further and further from the tune they had started out with until it was a battle of on-the-fly classical and contemporary medleys. Flynn forgot how they had gotten started, forgot how much Yuri aggravated and pushed him, forgot everything except how to coax the notes he wanted from his violin, how to meld one song into the next, how to make _music_. He didn’t realize he was grinning until a discordant twang of guitar strings signaled the sudden end of Yuri’s playing and dragged Flynn back down to earth. Yuri took one look at him and laughed as he offered a hand.

“Call it a draw?”

“I suppose there’s no other choice, seeing as I highly doubt you have a gold fiddle to hand over.” 

They shook, and Flynn felt like they had actually made a new start. The shows had been a prelude, the easing of hostilities that made identifying common ground possible. It was starting to look like his living situation might become bearable—maybe even somewhat enjoyable—after all.

Yuri dropped down to sit on the edge of his mattress, ruffling Repede’s fur before waving a hand to invite Flynn to join him. Not wanting to sour the tenuous connection they’d made with a rejection, not even sure he actually wanted to leave just yet, Flynn sat down next to him. Yuri was loud and unruly and unorganized but….

“You love music, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

“Maybe…but that’s not what I meant. You really love it. You can appreciate it. It means something to you. Is that…?” He hesitated, not sure if he should ask the question that had just occurred to him. He still didn’t like the music Yuri normally played, and apparently his disinterest was more obvious than he’d thought. Still…. “A couple weeks ago, you told me that we had more in common than I realized. Is that what you meant?”

“It’s something, sure. Glad you stayed long enough to start realizing it.”

“Why did you let me stay? You’ve got plenty of friends. It shouldn’t be that hard to find a more compatible roommate.”

Yuri shrugged. “Repede likes you.”

The dog looked up at the mention of his name, and Flynn scratched him fondly behind the ears.

“Is that the only reason?”

“Nah, just the best one. He’s a good judge of character.”

Flynn sighed. The past couple of months had been the hardest of his life, and he needed to get a few things firmly settled before he could move on. He needed to clear the air with Yuri.

“Listen. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m ever going to be a heavy metal fan. If that’s going to be a problem with me living here—”

“If you want to move out, no one’s stopping you, but don’t do it just because you think I can’t deal with you not liking my music.”

“But…you had me go to one of your gigs.”

“That was partly a punishment.” He smirked. “When you invited me to your concert, I bet you were thinking: ‘This will show him how wrong he is,’ weren’t you? I get that you don’t like metal. That’s fine. Music is supposed to be personal. Give your classical thing all you’ve got. I’ll do the same with my music. _That’s_ what I wanted to show you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Hey, what’s your beef with modern stuff, anyway? You’re not one of those elitist snobs, so what gives?”

Flynn took a moment to consider his answer. He understood that people liked different things, and he didn’t begrudge them the right to enjoy rock and pop, but he didn’t see how they could garner as rich an experience from music like that.

“I guess, for me, it’s sort of like comparing an actual sunrise to a written description of one. There’s just so much lost when a feeling is parceled out into words and mass marketed to sell copies.”

Yuri nodded. “Yeah, okay. I can see that. But you gotta remember, not everyone can let out what’s inside them through an instrument. Even musicians sometimes need to make some noise that’s all their own.” Lightly, he tapped Flynn’s throat with two fingers, smiling. “As for me, I don’t see how you can really connect with the music if there isn’t a single note that comes direct from you.”

He could understand that, but…. “Trying to put a feeling or experience into words weakens it. You’re always going to lose something.”

“You can’t guarantee people are going to get it just from listening to the notes, though. It’s all about a person’s own experience. So the original message is weakened, so what? People are weak, Flynn. We don’t always get things even when they’re spelled out for us. We can’t stand on our own, even if we want to. Shit that shouldn’t bother us gets under our skin. Isn’t it only human to try and capture all that amazing stuff you say can be expressed so strongly without words, and drag it down to our level? What’s it matter how the thought is expressed, so long as enough of it gets across to make some kind of connection?”

“I didn’t figure you for such a pessimist. Symphonies, art, architecture…the world is full of examples of the potential in people. If people are weak, how could we have created so many incredible things?”

“That’s what makes them incredible, though. Don’t you see it? People are weak, but they keep doing their best and trying to improve and trying to show everyone else what we’re capable of. That’s the sort of thing I like about people.”

“I didn’t expect you to be so philosophical, either.”

His smile turned into a teasing smirk. “I’m just full of surprises. Oh, that reminds me. You left your phone in the kitchen when you took your shower. Your mom called.”

The calm that had settled over Flynn vanished with those last three words, and he gaped at Yuri. His mother hadn’t had any contact with him since that fight. What did she want? She wasn’t paying any of his bills—his scholarship and new job were taking care of that. Was it because…could she possibly want to apologize? It wasn’t impossible. She might have realized that she had been wrong. She might have remembered that Flynn was her _son_ , that they were the only family either one had left, and that maybe she shouldn’t have let her prejudices overshadow that connection.

Nervously, he licked his lips, needing to know why she had called but afraid to find out, afraid that she was only going to try and “get him over it,” that she still might think it was just a phase and that the right girl could make him “normal.” He started to stand to go get his phone, but Yuri spoke up and stopped him.

“It wasn’t anything important.”

“You _answered_ my phone?” 

That urge to punch Yuri square in the face was back, and after they’d been making such progress, too. Yuri didn’t seem to notice, though he was keeping an eye on Flynn. He shrugged nonchalantly.

“I wanted to know if I was right about you.”

“Right about me, _how_?”

Flynn had never talked about what had passed between himself and his mother. Even Estelle didn’t have the full story. How could Yuri have worked any of it out?

“Seems like I was pretty much on the money. Once she found out I was just your roommate, she told me I should lock my door at night so you can’t sneak in and jump my bones.”

Oh, God, she had actually said that? The worst part was, Flynn could believe it. He felt his face heating up and slammed a fist down onto the mattress. Obviously, his mother wasn’t interested in mending fences.

“ _Fuck_.” 

His voice shook a little and he took a deep breath. He thought again that it was no wonder Yuri had so easily baited him into all those fights. If he was this unsettled after hearing her words secondhand, it was no surprise to realize he’d been a wreck after the last time they’d actually talked.

“Woah. Where’d you learn a naughty word like that?”

“I’m not going to go sneaking into your room. I’m not some deviant! She thinks that just because I’m gay—”

“Hey, easy there.” 

The last thing Flynn expected was a pat on the head, so when Yuri’s hand ruffled his hair before settling heavily there, the surprise left him speechless. If his own mother was ready kick him out, then Yuri, who barely knew him, couldn’t possibly want him to stick around. He’d expected to be told he needed to find new living quarters. He didn’t expect Yuri would attempt to comfort him.

“It’s okay. I get it, I do. I told you, remember? We’ve got a lot in common.”

The smile he offered was lopsided and reassuring and Flynn suddenly realized exactly how close they were sitting and why Yuri and Judy had never done anything more than play guitar together.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” He let his hand fall back down to his side and leaned back a bit, giving Flynn his space. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Um. I should go practice.”

Hurriedly, he snatched up his violin and bow and stood up. He was almost out of the room when Yuri called out.

“Hey. I don’t lock my door. Y’know, in case you need to let off some steam, or something.”

Was he flirting? Was he just trying to be nice? Still reeling from his mother’s warning to Yuri and all that it implied, and from Yuri’s roundabout admission, Flynn couldn’t tell whether Yuri was offering him friendship or something more. He fled to his room, opting not to even try to think about it just then. Music would take his mind off of things for a little while. Maybe in the morning, after a good night’s sleep and some time to process, he’d at least be able to deal with Yuri. 

As he flipped through his sheet music, searching for something suitably distracting, Flynn realized that the idea of Yuri flirting with him didn’t trouble him as much as it would have two months ago. In fact, it didn’t really bother him at all. Coming to the conclusion that he may have found something in heavy metal that he actually liked, Flynn smiled slightly as he lifted his violin to his chin and began to play.


End file.
